


love is not an abstract belief

by kalachuchi



Series: roads returning to the sea [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, M/M, Slice of Life, seokmin-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:38:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalachuchi/pseuds/kalachuchi
Summary: When the feeling finally sinks in, it stays.Or: Minghao who waits, and Seokmin who starts to notice.





	love is not an abstract belief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earthshaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthshaker/gifts).



> dia, this is for you ♡
> 
> the idea for this was originally meant to make it in time for 0218 as like, a series of snapshots but as you can see that, uh, didn't happen TT then it all ended up expanding & this wound up the start for a series (following fics to follow in time! you know!!). 
> 
> timeline set loosely in from, let's say, the beginning of idolpr s2 filming before progressing ambiguously from there....... the point is really just Op Has Seokhao Disease And It Is Incurable
> 
> love you!!!!!!

 

Already on his way out, Minghao opens the door before Seokmin moves to knock. Phone still in hand, Minghao waves. Seokmin nods back, mindful of the luggage behind Minghao as he steps back to let Minghao pass. 

_You first,_ Seokmin gestures with his hands, ready to laugh at how Minghao was reaching back for his roller bag, as if to make space for Seokmin first. 

“Sorry,” Minghao says. Then shakes his head, as if thinking better of it. Minghao smiles. “Thanks, Seokmin-ah.”

“Gentlemen first,” Seokmin jokes.

The laugh lines by Minghao’s eyes deepen – more visible on Minghao’s face compared to the other members, most obvious when Minghao laughs. Seokmin wonders if he should expect it, Minghao’s laugh, but permits the moment to pass when Minghao doesn’t. 

Minghao plays along anyway. “In that case I really _should_ have let you go first.”

“Ah, but there’s a catch,” Seokmin elaborates, reaching for Minghao’s luggage handle. Minghao allows it, listening. “Gentlemen first, but travellers before even gentlemen.”

“Schedules before sensibility,” Minghao agrees.

“Or just common sense.” Leaning in a bit Seokmin says, voice low and conspiratorial, pitched to amuse: “Ignore I said that if Manager-hyung asks.”

Solemn, Minghao lays a hand over his heart. 

Seokmin feels the comically serious set of his face wash away into something lighter. 

“You have my word, Seokmin-ah.” Minghao’s still smiling. Minghao seems most his own age when he smiles. Same age friends. More than once, Seokmin's wondered if Minghao usually passing for older is by intent or afterthought. Cause or effect, which came first, the chicken or the egg…

Seokmin’s definitely smiling now. 

_Our Seokminnie’s eye smile can’t be beat,_ Jeonghan’s voice drawls from the depths of a memory. _Like, did the sun disappear? I thought it must be morning, but actually it was you, Seokmin-ah._

If Seokmin strains for it, he can still catch the sounds of a shower running downstairs. Parse through his mind’s eye the shape of Jeonghan’s back half an hour ago before the door closed behind him.

Back in the present, Seokmin’s phone buzzes from his hoodie pocket. He remembers, abruptly, why he was up here in the first place. Chan sending a string of stickers over Kakao when Seokmin jokes about less people in the apartment only adding up to more time waiting for the shower, _So use ours then?? our dorm is Seventeen’s dorm anyway?._ Seokmin doesn’t recall when he started losing track.

And then, by Seokmin’s hand, a gentle tug.

So Seokmin stops thinking backwards and looks beside him instead–

Finds Minghao, uncurling Seokmin’s hand from the roller bag finger by finger. Within the safety of Seokmin’s chest curiosity wells to the surface, invisible as the river’s current, equally impossible to ignore. Then, rather than letting Seokmin’s hand fall to his side after he’s finished, Minghao curls his own hand around Seokmin’s before tucking Seokmin’s hand into the pocket of Seokmin’s hoodie. 

He thinks he’s been quiet too long. Minghao clears his throat. 

“It’s colder in the hallway,” Minghao explains. 

Seokmin hums, _mm-hmm,_ like. _Yeah, it’s pretty cold._ Like, _Yeah, I’m listening_.

“My flight’s in five hours,” Minghao adds, as if offering a lifeline or an apology. An apology for what? For five hours, stylists and salon appointment and airport press appearances pencilled in long before Seokmin, holding Minghao’s hand in the hallway of their dorm? As if Minghao could have guessed. Life is full of surprises.

“Myungho,” Seokmin says. “You’ll do really well.”

Inside Seokmin’s heart a river current flows into tide as it meets the sea, Seokmin’s heart turning curiosity into something further, something more tangible. Seokmin squeezes Minghao’s hand. Then he lets go.

Life is full of things that can’t be helped.

This time it’s Minghao’s phone, loud when it echoes. Seokmin really is holding him up now, if he wasn’t already. Minghao doesn’t spare the notification a glance, eyes focused on Seokmin.

“Seokmin. Stay warm, okay?”

 

 

Comeback season, prerecording at KBS. Seokmin’s pretty sure it’s Music Bank they’re here for this time. Time tends to cease meaning anything during promotion cycles, letting go of any significance beyond how there is never quite enough of it.

Seokmin condenses the brightness and bustle of the waiting room into the boundary of his body, a line mostly curved trying match or meld with Minghao’s, Seokmin’s intent undecided but Seokmin’s leg slung across both of Minghao’s, his cheek pressing against the angular juncture where Minghao’s throat meets his collarbone. 

Closing his eyes, Seokmin is still.

When they first debuted, the words _Seokmin_ and _stillness_ refused to co-exist in Minghao’s presence. Or anyone’s presence, as Minghao used to remind him. 

But Seokmin couldn’t stand that, orbiting within a gravitational pull assigned to him. So he breathed in bigger and belted every song that much louder. If he could remind everyone of his voice then it stood to reason someday he could remind himself what he was singing for. 

Or for whom. 

Seokmin dreams about many things. The heart is a crescendo that builds and builds and builds…

And goes no further. Seokmin’s heart a paper plane, taking shape without taking flight.

After all, the progress bridging Seokmin’s dreams and Seokmin’s career remains a screenplay in progress, today’s draft punctuated only by the overflow from Minghao’s earphones. Seokmin breathes. He is still but he doesn’t feel quiet. He wonders what song Minghao is listening to, unidentifiable beyond the notes Seokmin registers here and there. He thinks Minghao will answer if he asks.

Seokmin doesn’t.

But Seokmin dreams. In this dream he is back at the Pledis building, waiting for…Seokmin looks down. There’s a laptop shut in front of him, a dark square reflected along the mirrored wall of the practice room. As if he’d just finished vocal monitoring, and now he is waiting for… 

Seokmin tips his head back, leans his head against the wall, and the wall tips back, becomes soft. Seokmin looks up, lightbulb blinking into sunlight. By a riverbank he still smells the sea, still hears someone singing, tinny and far away. Like earphones. Like karaoke. Seokmin likes karaoke, loves music. 

In Seokmin’s dream he is by a river surrounded by the smell of the sea. Seokmin dreams he is waiting for someone. He thinks about the promise of karaoke, certain of it in the way dreams take impossible things and let you take them for granted. So Seokmin waits. 

But promises don’t always follow through.

Seokmin keeps waiting.

Finally someone’s voice–Soonyoung’s, Seokmin recognises–registers faintly beyond the perimeter of his body, warm and slow-moving. There’s a hand fussing with his hair. Seokmin is not immediately certain where he is. Everything presses at the edges of his focus, insistent. “Soonyoung?”

Quiet against the noise, Minghao answers, “Hyung’s back with tteokbokki. You can sleep more, though.” 

Oh. So he fell asleep after all. 

The dream deflates, Seokmin waking fully. He doesn’t feel disappointed leaving that particular dream behind.

“You,” Seokmin mumbles back, considering. “Wanna eat?”

There’s a pause before Minghao answers. Minghao’s hand, Seokmin knows it’s Minghao’s this time, cards through Seokmin’s hair. The touch is light enough it won’t cause any grief with their hairstylists later. Seokmin leans into it, blinking and trying not to yawn.

Minghao says, “I can wait.” 

 

 

It doesn’t sink in until much, much later: 

Seokmin, as close to horizontal as he can get seated between Jeonghan and Junhui, tipsiness beginning its pleasant bloom in his bloodstream. 

A thought circles out of reach, just barely beyond Seokmin’s stratosphere. Cheerfully exchanging clarity of thought for a cloudy calm is easier than breathing when he’s like this, butSeokmin tries to hold on. 

Armed with chopsticks, Junhui is prodding across the table at Minghao, pestering him to _Eat more, you disciplined old man!_ Minghao’s nose scrunches, thoroughly unimpressed. Seokmin laughs and laughs. The thought floats away.

“Junnie,” Jeonghan starts, swallowing down a grin. “Let’s respect Myungho’s set meal schedule.”

Junhui’s expression undergoes a complex sort of facial somersault, the end result starting Seokmin’s laugh anew. Still, he dutifully parrots back, “Respecting Myungho’s set meal schedule.”

Minghao rolls his eyes. 

Seokmin finally notices – “Ah, is that tteokbokki?” – and cheers when Minghao slides the serving down. Mingyu’s voice drifts from further down the table.

“I ordered for me? That was _mine?”_

Minghao deadpans, “And now it is not. Magic.”

“Myungho–”

“You had some when we were sleeping.” But Minghao relents, “I’ll order you more later.”

Oh. Seokmin is three bites in when the runaway thought returns. 

_Wanna eat? …I can wait._

Oh. 

Seokmin thinks back to that morning, the dream that didn’t happen and Minghao’s song Seokmin still doesn’t recognise. Minghao was probably not sleeping while Seokmin was. Minghao never skips his meals and he never eats beyond his schedule. Seokmin never noticed – only knows because Chan found translations of Junhui and Minghao’s interviews and dropped them in the group chat.

“…Seokmin?”

Minghao blinks at the tteokbokki Seokmin holds out for him. He doesn’t relent until Minghao eats. And Minghao must realise, because eventually he gives in and eats. Seokmin watches. He tries to pay attention.

Food will never fail you, and Seokmin is making that a promise, making it so it counts.

When the feeling finally sinks in, it stays.

Seokmin still feels it, felt it then and feels it now and even later he’ll feel it stay. And when he doesn’t it will remain, the memory if not the feeling, a meal ended for the body but not the mind, the heart. Seokmin’s heart, chasing after what was immediate but isn’t anymore. What remains is only what refuses to leave. 

Minghao, who waited. Seokmin, who is starting to notice.

Food will never fail you. The way to the heart is through the stomach – this much is true. Nobody’s told Seokmin where to find the way out. 

 

 

Unable to sensibly tolerate Seokmin’s business any longer, Mingyu stages an intervention at some point after Seokmin’s–

Well. Seokmin is not particularly numerically inclined, and the table has more bottles than Seokmin remembers. Mingyu seems to have reached a similar conclusion. He breathes in, holding it for long enough that Seokmin can’t be certain Mingyu lets the breath out again. Mingyu frowns. Seokmin realises he is still staring at Mingyu’s nose. 

Belatedly, Seokmin connects the frown less to the nose and more Seokmin’s helpless, haplessly manic wheezing.

“I think,” Mingyu says, slow enough Seokmin doesn’t mistake the implied _I am enforcing this opinion, effective immediately_. “That’s enough for you. And me.”

“Okay.”

“We are leaving.” Mingyu waits. Seokmin nods. 

Mingyu continues.

“We are going for a walk.” _Oh_. Less okay. 

Seokmin tells Mingyu so, and narrows his eyes when Mingyu ignores him.

“You can’t treat me this way.” Seokmin jabs his index finger at Mingyu’s chest on _You_ , for emphasis.

Mingyu sighs. “You’re not driving like this, and _I’m_ not driving with you like this.”

Seokmin is, at present moment, not so endeared to this Mingyu with his common sense. He much preferred earlier tonight’s Mingyu, who peeped one glance at Seokmin and said, with unprecedented feeling, _What the hell is wrong with you_ before grabbing his coat and keys where he’d left them by the door. 

So, because it is only fair, he makes current Mingyu carry his coat as well as a not insignificant allocation of Seokmin himself when they head out of the bar.

 

 

“I take it back. This is almost romantic of you,” Seokmin volunteers. 

The Han river at night is a familiar enough sight, stars in the sky and light reflected on water. Seokmin’s no stranger to Mingyu either, but the presence of both at once, Seokmin’s arm looped through Mingyu’s to remain comfortably upright, leaves Seokmin stuck in a situation he never anticipated finding himself in–well, ever.

“You didn’t even take me for dinner beforehand, though,” Seokmin laments. “Kim Mingyu, you scoundrel.”

Mingyu’s arm tenses, enough that Seokmin senses it beneath Mingyu’s coat and through the blurred curtain Seokmin currently sees the world with. Like peering through a mirror left to gather dust, Mingyu’s other arm hazy as it reaches towards him. Seokmin tenses, eyes shut.

Mingyu’s hand curls around the collar of Seokmin’s coat, now draped across Seokmin’s person instead of Mingyu’s arm, and buttons it without a word.

Unbidden, Seokmin is struck by the memory of Mingyu, many years younger buttoning Seokmin’s coat for him, Seokmin’s high school blazer visible without a scarf. 

“Better a scoundrel of a friend,” Mingyu of right now says, voice even, “than a coward for his feelings.”

They’ve known each other for a long time, Seokmin and Mingyu. 

Seokmin opens his eyes. He looks at Mingyu who looks past him, eyes turned to the water. A river is not an ocean, but it reaches toward further depths nevertheless. Seokmin knows he’s not who Mingyu would usually go here with. He thinks they might both be watching the water for the same person. He wonders if Mingyu sees what Seokmin sees, how Seokmin feels, when Seokmin thinks of Minghao.

Seokmin confesses, “Running away felt like it would be–easier. Less.”

It’s testament both to Mingyu’s ability to read others and Mingyu’s ability to unfailingly tug at Seokmin’s split ends, figuratively or otherwise, that Mingyu doesn’t ask Seokmin to elaborate the way he usually would. He doesn’t need to, Seokmin guesses.

Seokmin doesn’t wonder what Mingyu feels, when Mingyu looks at Minghao.

“Seokmin-ah. Run a marathon across the world if you think you’d be far enough. Hand your heart over to the next new member for all I care. It won’t change a damn thing.”

“You make it sound like I’m fucked,” Seokmin jokes, meaning it entirely.

“Eh, aren’t you?” Mingyu grins, and Seokmin doesn’t place the feeling behind it. 

Can’t argue with him either, so Seokmin assumes this means Mingyu wins.

“How do–.” Seokmin starts over. “How would you fix it then. If it were you.”

Mingyu bursts into laughter, sharp, startling.

Seokmin exhales, gaze shifting from the river to the stars.

“Right,” Seokmin breathes. “You can’t.”

“Stop talking like it’s something you have to _fix.”_ And Seokmin knows without having to look that Mingyu rolls his eyes. “A feeling’s a feeling. Lesser won’t make it easier. Ignoring it won’t, like, exorcise it, it’s not a ghost. Not like you can touch feelings either, but they’re both. You know.” Mingyu gestures vaguely.

Seokmin does not know. He supplies a response anyway, “Know what? How a ghost feels? How to touch emotion? Isn’t that what you do, like…” Seokmin mimes painting. “All abstract.”

“ _That’s_ the word. Abstract. It’s not some abstract idea. You sing about this all the time.”

“I don’t write the songs,” Seokmin says, throat dry. 

Mingyu flicks his forehead. “But you still know the words. _Why_ are we still talking about this. What a walk, you’re right, let’s just keep walking.”

 

 

Mingyu was right about the walk too, the bastard. Seokmin’s head is hammering away at him. Like an iceberg splintering from its summit, the summit being Seokmin’s face. 

In his stupor he imagines someone–Mingyu, probably, back to resume his _being-right-ness–_ the hand against Seokmin’s cheek cool on his skin and almost too soft. Seokmin feels, in more way than one, like old leather cracked and left to dry.

“Is this because I never bring chapstick,” Seokmin says. Thinks he says. “Ah, _shit.”_

Imagined Mingyu, stubbornly reasonable, answers: _Life is lived to be learned from_ before adding, more gently, _Sleep well, Seokmin._

And Seokmin, despite everything, does.

 

 

In between increasingly challenging Super Smash combos Junhui says, “Minghao is working very hard nowadays.” Seokmin’s thumbs stutter. That was not what Seokmin asked. The response is neither new nor surprising, but Seokmin’s body has always reacted following his heart before his head, so to speak.

Muscle memory is a powerful thing, and while the heart is a muscle Seokmin has yet to teach his restraint.

Junhui presses on, verbally and visually: Seokmin stares, more impressed than anything else, as Junhui jabs Kirby into uppercutting Link careening off-screen.

Junhui says, “Seungcheol-hyung watches the episodes, I think.” 

Link re-spawns. Seokmin considers this. 

“How about Jun-hyung?” 

Junhui doesn’t hesitate, Seokmin dodging a Kirby cannonballing rapidly across the stage to Link. 

“Someone has to translate? Hyung’s too excited to read subtitles.”

“…So you watch it with him?”

Junhui beams, voice sunny. “I don’t translate the _show!_ Not all of it. Just the fun parts. Mostly I just talk about things.”

Kirby sends Link spiralling into outer space. 

Seokmin snorts, and can’t bring himself to mind.

In an effort to better know and be known by Junhui – and, admittedly, ignore a phone and its consequent notifications – Seokmin has taken to gaming in the upstairs apartment.

Junhui asks,“Rematch?” 

Seokmin is halfway through a _Yeah, why not_ when Junhui continues, deceptively unassuming, “How about you, Seokminnie?” 

“The survival show? I can never watch those, it’s embarrassing when I get–Well. Never mind.”

“Hmm.” Junhui pauses. Onscreen, Link feints before lunging forward. 

Seokmin grins.

Unbothered by Kirby’s effective cannonball knockout, Junhui rephrases, “Well, what about Minghao?”

“What about Minghao,” Seokmin repeats, slower on the syllables. Careful but familiar, like treading water. Junhui nods encouragingly – “Really good!” – before abandoning his controller entirely. Then he continues.

“Do you? Watch Minghao?”

The water pulls him under. Seokmin takes it back – he minds very much. 

Junhui blinks at him, curious and knowing at the same time. He really does remind you of a cat, Seokmin thinks. And somehow that, despite everything else, sets Seokmin at ease. Seokmin thought of Junhui as funny before, in an almost childishly endearing way. 

But he’s kind, too. 

Like a cat, Junhui is less shy as he is hesitant to hold on. And like a cat, once he holds on, he doesn’t take anything back. The two of them more similar than Seokmin could have anticipated.

Seokmin sets down his controller. 

He says: “I’ve never said his name the way you do.” 

He means: _I’ve never said his name the way someone who knows him, really knows, would._

Junhui tucks Seokmin against him, voice quiet. 

“But you want to.” It isn’t a question, not really, and Junhui doesn’t prod for an answer.

“It’s easier, when he’s not around,” Seokmin tries to explain anyway. “Talking about him, I mean. It’s weird, right? It’s not anything life changing but it’s. It’s not nothing, you know? I don’t know how to make it make sense. He’s always been himself. Minghao’s still the same. It’s me, I…” 

Seokmin doesn’t continue. He’s not sure he has the words, his sentences muddled into syllables, his syllables left suspended, emotion inseparable and impossible to define.

Junhui hums, “Minghao who works the hardest is Minghao who shines the brightest.”

Then he pats Seokmin’s head.

“No matter how you change you’ll always be you! For Hao Hao and for you, Seokminnie. And that’s okay–I like you both lots.”

More than once, Jeonghan has compared Junhui’s unthinking kindness with Seokmin’s. 

Just this once, Seokmin accepts the sentiment beyond the levity, hoping for the truth of it with utmost sincerity.

 

 

Outside, it’s raining.

Seokmin is about to leave when the door opens. Standing by the doorway, suitcase in tow, is Minghao. Of course it is. The most surprising aspect of Minghao’s return is how unsurprised it leaves Seokmin. This is Minghao’s dorm, after all. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be here. Holding up a plastic bag from the convenience store a few blocks from the building, Minghao says, “Hey. On your way somewhere?”

“Depends,” Seokmin grins. “Did you bring souvenirs?”

“Well,” Minghao begins, and Seokmin laughs, heading over.

“I’m kidding. Mostly. You can come inside, you know. It’s raining.”

Minghao arches a brow. “We’re indoors.”

“At the doorstep of _your_ apartment,” Seokmin agrees. “Hold still a bit, actually, I’ll grab you a towel…”

Minghao says, “I keep mine in my room,” before he stops. Seokmin is already on his way back, towel at the ready. The apology, when it arises, is perhaps too belated to be sincere.

“We’ve been ransacking your closet,” Seokmin confesses. He hands Minghao the towel as offering. Minghao accepts, the curl of his mouth more amused than anything else. The moment in place without Seokmin having realised it:

Minghao, slipping from solo schedule to the routine of dorm life with little fanfare. Seokmin, there to greet his return, no less familiar a fixture of the apartment despite his own bedroom, two storeys down. The rain, unobtrusive for its volume, thudding insistently against the glass of the windows, all the curtains caught in the laundry Hansol forgot to bring in. The barely audible strain of whatever Minghao was listening to on the way back carried into the apartment from Minghao’s earphones, tucked beside the strings of his hoodie.

“Ah,” Minghao shrugs, following Seokmin’s focus to the sound. “I was monitoring my interview.”

“Yeah? Anything new for the audience back home?”

Minghao watches him, ears red. Seokmin notices.

“Weren’t you on your way out somewhere?”

Seokmin grins. “In a bit. But gentlemen first, so–go on. I’m listening.”

“Aiyo,” Minghao laughs, scrubbing the towel through his hair, “it’s really nothing you don’t already know. I like being close to water. On my days off I think it’s nice to read. I’m almost always the one who confesses first. I’m pretty persistent about things, too, so it’s usually me who ends up having to wait…”

Minghao pauses. Seokmin lets him. Visibly, nothing changes.

There is no grand realisation, no shift of tectonic plates. For all Minghao claims to still be searching his way for words, Seokmin thinks he finds them pretty well. Maybe it’s Seokmin that’s learned how to puzzle the pieces into place. Paying attention to syntax, not just the syllables. It’s a nice thought, in any case.

For now, at least, Seokmin thinks it’s one he wants to keep believing.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is upwards of 3k+ of seokmin realising his feelings are open they stopped being closed possibly they have been open all along............. it be like that sometimes


End file.
